Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Experience is the chief philosopher,

  But saddest when his science is well known:

  And persecuted sages teach the schools

  Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

  XVIII

  Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?

  Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still,

  Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,

  And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?

  Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,

  How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill

  Volumes with similar sad illustrations,

  But leave them to the conscience of the nations.

  XIX

  I perch upon an humbler promontory,

  Amidst life’s infinite variety:

  With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,

  But speculating as I cast mine eye

  On what may suit or may not suit my story,

  And never straining hard to versify,

  I rattle on exactly as I’d talk

  With any body in a ride or walk.

  XX

  I don’t know that there may be much ability

  Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme;

  But there’s a conversational facility,

  Which may round off an hour upon a time.

  Of this I’m sure at least, there’s no servility

  In mine irregularity of chime,

  Which rings what’s uppermost of new or hoary,

  Just as I feel the Improvvisatore.

  XXI

  “Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — dic aliquando

  Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.”

  The first is rather more than mortal can do;

  The second may be sadly done or gaily;

  The third is still more difficult to stand to;

  The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily.

  The whole together is what I could wish

  To serve in this conundrum of a dish.

  XXII

  A modest hope — but modesty’s my forte,

  And pride my feeble: — let us ramble on.

  I meant to make this poem very short,

  But now I can’t tell where it may not run.

  No doubt, if I had wished to pay my court

  To critics, or to hail the setting sun

  Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision

  Were more; — but I was born for opposition.

  XXIII

  But then ‘t is mostly on the weaker side;

  So that I verily believe if they

  Who now are basking in their full-blown pride

  Were shaken down, and “dogs had had their day,”

  Though at the first I might perchance deride

  Their tumble, I should turn the other way,

  And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty,

  Because I hate even democratic royalty.

  XXIV

  I think I should have made a decent spouse,

  If I had never proved the soft condition;

  I think I should have made monastic vows,

  But for my own peculiar superstition:

  ‘Gainst rhyme I never should have knock’d my brows,

  Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,

  Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet,

  If some one had not told me to forego it.

  XXV

  But laissez aller — knights and dames I sing,

  Such as the times may furnish. ‘T is a flight

  Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,

  Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:

  The difficultly lies in colouring

  (Keeping the due proportions still in sight)

  With nature manners which are artificial,

  And rend’ring general that which is especial.

  XXVI

  The difference is, that in the days of old

  Men made the manners; manners now make men —

  Pinn’d like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,

  At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten.

  Now this at all events must render cold

  Your writers, who must either draw again

  Days better drawn before, or else assume

  The present, with their common-place costume.

  XXVII

  We’ll do our best to make the best on ‘t: — March!

  March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter;

  And when you may not be sublime, be arch,

  Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter.

  We surely may find something worth research:

  Columbus found a new world in a cutter,

  Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage,

  While yet America was in her non-age.

  XXVIII

  When Adeline, in all her growing sense

  Of Juan’s merits and his situation,

  Felt on the whole an interest intense, —

  Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,

  Or that he had an air of innocence,

  Which is for innocence a sad temptation, —

  As women hate half measures, on the whole,

  She ‘gan to ponder how to save his soul.

  XXIX

  She had a good opinion of advice,

  Like all who give and eke receive it gratis,

  For which small thanks are still the market price,

  Even where the article at highest rate is:

  She thought upon the subject twice or thrice,

  And morally decided, the best state is

  For morals, marriage; and this question carried,

  She seriously advised him to get married.

  XXX

  Juan replied, with all becoming deference,

  He had a predilection for that tie;

  But that, at present, with immediate reference

  To his own circumstances, there might lie

  Some difficulties, as in his own preference,

  Or that of her to whom he might apply:

  That still he’d wed with such or such a lady,

  If that they were not married all already.

  XXXI

  Next to the making matches for herself,

  And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin,

  Arranging them like books on the same shelf,

  There’s nothing women love to dabble in

  More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf)

  Than match-making in general: ‘t is no sin

  Certes, but a preventative, and therefore

  That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.

  XXXII

  But never yet (except of course a miss

  Unwed, or mistress never to be wed,

  Or wed already, who object to this)

  Was there chaste dame who had not in her head

  Some drama of the marriage unities,

  Observed as strictly both at board and bed

  As those of Aristotle, though sometimes

  They turn out melodrames or pantomimes.

  XXXIII

  They generally have some only son,

  Some heir to a large property, some friend

  Of an old family, some gay Sir John,

  Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end

  A line, and leave posterity undone,

  Unless a marriage was applied to mend

  The prospect and their morals: and besides,

  They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.

  XXXIV

  From these they will be careful to select,

  For this an heiress, and for that a beauty;

  For one a songstress who hath no defect,

  For t’ other one who promises much duty;

  For this a lady no one can reject,

  Whose sole a
ccomplishments were quite a booty;

  A second for her excellent connections;

  A third, because there can be no objections.

  XXXV

  When Rapp the Harmonist embargo’d marriage

  In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes

  Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage,

  Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes,

  Without those sad expenses which disparage

  What Nature naturally most encourages) —

  Why call’d he “Harmony” a state sans wedlock?

  Now here I’ve got the preacher at a dead lock,

  XXXVI

  Because he either meant to sneer at harmony

  Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly.

  But whether reverend Rapp learn’d this in Germany

  Or no, ‘t is said his sect is rich and godly,

  Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any

  Of ours, although they propagate more broadly.

  My objection’s to his title, not his ritual,

  Although I wonder how it grew habitual.

  XXXVII

  But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,

  Who favour, malgré Malthus, generation —

  Professors of that genial art, and patrons

  Of all the modest part of propagation;

  Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,

  That half its produce tends to emigration,

  That sad result of passions and potatoes —

  Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.

  XXXVIII

  Had Adeline read Malthus? I can’t tell;

  I wish she had: his book’s the eleventh commandment,

  Which says, “Thou shalt not marry,” unless well:

  This he (as far as I can understand) meant.

  ‘T is not my purpose on his views to dwell

  Nor canvass what so “eminent a hand” meant;

  But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,

  Or turning marriage into arithmetic.

  XXXIX

  But Adeline, who probably presumed

  That Juan had enough of maintenance,

  Or separate maintenance, in case ‘t was doom’d —

  As on the whole it is an even chance

  That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom’d,

  May retrograde a little in the dance

  Of marriage (which might form a painter’s fame,

  Like Holbein’s “Dance of Death” — but ‘t is the same); —

  XL

  But Adeline determined Juan’s wedding

  In her own mind, and that’s enough for woman:

  But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,

  Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman.

  And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding.

  She deem’d his merits something more than common:

  All these were unobjectionable matches,

  And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.

  XLI

  There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer’s sea,

  That usual paragon, an only daughter,

  Who seem’d the cream of equanimity

  Till skimm’d — and then there was some milk and water,

  With a slight shade of blue too, it might be,

  Beneath the surface; but what did it matter?

  Love’s riotous, but marriage should have quiet,

  And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.

  XLII

  And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,

  A dashing demoiselle of good estate,

  Whose heart was fix’d upon a star or blue string;

  But whether English dukes grew rare of late,

  Or that she had not harp’d upon the true string,

  By which such sirens can attract our great,

  She took up with some foreign younger brother,

  A Russ or Turk — the one’s as good as t’ other.

  XLIII

  And then there was — but why should I go on,

  Unless the ladies should go off? — there was

  Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,

  Of the best class, and better than her class, —

  Aurora Raby, a young star who shone

  O’er life, too sweet an image for such glass,

  A lovely being, scarcely form’d or moulded,

  A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;

  XLIV

  Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only

  Child to the care of guardians good and kind;

  But still her aspect had an air so lonely!

  Blood is not water; and where shall we find

  Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie

  By death, when we are left, alas! behind,

  To feel, in friendless palaces, a home

  Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?

  XLV

  Early in years, and yet more infantine

  In figure, she had something of sublime

  In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs’ shine.

  All youth — but with an aspect beyond time;

  Radiant and grave — as pitying man’s decline;

  Mournful — but mournful of another’s crime,

  She look’d as if she sat by Eden’s door.

  And grieved for those who could return no more.

  XLVI

  She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,

  As far as her own gentle heart allow’d,

  And deem’d that fallen worship far more dear

  Perhaps because ‘t was fallen: her sires were proud

  Of deeds and days when they had fill’d the ear

  Of nations, and had never bent or bow’d

  To novel power; and as she was the last,

  She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

  XLVII

  She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,

  As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,

  As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,

  And kept her heart serene within its zone.

  There was awe in the homage which she drew;

  Her spirit seem’d as seated on a throne

  Apart from the surrounding world, and strong

  In its own strength — most strange in one so young!

  XLVIII

  Now it so happen’d, in the catalogue

  Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted,

  Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue

  Beyond the charmers we have already cited;

  Her beauty also seem’d to form no clog

  Against her being mention’d as well fitted,

  By many virtues, to be worth the trouble

  Of single gentlemen who would be double.

  XLIX

  And this omission, like that of the bust

  Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,

  Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.

  This he express’d half smiling and half serious;

  When Adeline replied with some disgust,

  And with an air, to say the least, imperious,

  She marvell’d “what he saw in such a baby

  As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?”

  L

  Juan rejoin’d — “She was a Catholic,

  And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion;

  Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,

  And the Pope thunder excommunication,

  If-” But here Adeline, who seem’d to pique

  Herself extremely on the inoculation

  Of others with her own opinions, stated —

  As usual — the same reason which she late did.

  LI

  And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,

  If good,
is none the worse for repetition;

  If bad, the best way’s certainly to tease on,

  And amplify: you lose much by concision,

  Whereas insisting in or out of season

  Convinces all men, even a politician;

  Or — what is just the same — it wearies out.

  So the end’s gain’d, what signifies the route?

  LII

  Why Adeline had this slight prejudice —

  For prejudice it was — against a creature

  As pure as sanctity itself from vice,

  With all the added charm of form and feature,

  For me appears a question far too nice,

  Since Adeline was liberal by nature;

  But nature’s nature, and has more caprices

  Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

  LIII

  Perhaps she did not like the quiet way

  With which Aurora on those baubles look’d,

  Which charm most people in their earlier day:

  For there are few things by mankind less brook’d,

  And womankind too, if we so may say,

  Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,

  Like “Anthony’s by Cæsar,” by the few

  Who look upon them as they ought to do.

  LIV

  It was not envy — Adeline had none;

  Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.

  It was not scorn — which could not light on one

  Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.

  It was not jealousy, I think: but shun

  Following the ignes fatui of mankind.

  It was not — but ‘t is easier far, alas!

  To say what it was not than what it was.

  LV

  Little Aurora deem’d she was the theme

  Of such discussion. She was there a guest;

  A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream

  Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest,

  Which flow’d on for a moment in the beam

  Time sheds a moment o’er each sparkling crest.

  Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled —

  She had so much, or little, of the child.

  LVI

  The dashing and proud air of Adeline

  Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze

  Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,

  Then turn’d unto the stars for loftier rays.

  Juan was something she could not divine,

  Being no sibyl in the new world’s ways;

  Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,

  Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

  LVII

  His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame

  Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,

  A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,

  Half virtues and whole vices being combined;

  Faults which attract because they are not tame;